Strom’s heavy fist banged on the table, making the wine dance in the glasses.
“No, by Mitra! Give me my answer now!”
Zarono was on his feet, his black rage submerging his craftiness.
“You Barachan dog! I’ll give you your answer – in your guts –”
He tore aside his cloak, caught at his sword-hilt. Strom heaved up with a roar, his chair crashing backward to the floor. Valenso sprang up, spreading his arms between them as they faced one another across the board, jutting jaws close together, blades half drawn, faces convulsed.
“Gentlemen, have done! Zarono, he has my pledge –”
“The foul fiend gnaw your pledge!” snarled Zarono.
“Stand from between us, my lord,” growled the pirate, his voice thick with the killing lust. “Your word was that I should not be treacherously entreated. It shall be considered no violation of your pledge for this dog and me to cross swords in equal play.”
“Well spoken, Strom!” It was a deep, powerful voice behind them, vibrant with grim amusement. All wheeled and glared, open-mouthed. Up on the stair Belesa started up with an involuntary exclamation.
A man strode out from the hangings that masked a chamber door, and advanced toward the table without haste or hesitation. Instantly he dominated the group, and all felt the situation subtly charged with a new, dynamic atmosphere.
The stranger was as tall as either of the freebooters, and more powerfully built than either, yet for all his size he moved with pantherish suppleness in his high, flaring-topped boots. His thighs were cased in close-fitting breeches of white silk, his wide-skirted sky-blue coat open to reveal an open-necked white silken shirt beneath, and the scarlet sash that girdled his waist. There were silver acorn-shaped buttons on the coat, and it was adorned with gilt-worked cuffs and pocket-flaps, and a satin collar. A lacquered hat completed a costume obsolete by nearly a hundred years. A heavy cutlass hung at the wearer’s hip.
“Conan!” ejaculated both freebooters together, and Valenso and Galbro caught their breath at that name.
“Who else?” The giant strode up to the table, laughing sardonically at their amazement.
“What – what do you here?” stuttered the seneschal. “How come you here, uninvited and unannounced?”
“I climbed the palisade on the east side while you fools were arguing at the gate,” Conan answered. “Every man in the fort was craning his neck westward. I entered the manor while Strom was being let in at the gate. I’ve been in that chamber there ever since, eavesdropping.”
“I thought you were dead,” said Zarono slowly. “Three years ago the shattered hull of your ship was sighted off a reefy coast, and you were heard of on the Main no more.”
“I didn’t drown with my crew,” answered Conan. “It’ll take a bigger ocean than that one to drown me.”
Up on the stair Tina was clutching Belesa in her excitement and staring through the balustrades with all her eyes.
“Conan! My Lady, it is Conan! Look! Oh, look!”
Belesa was looking; it was like encountering a legendary character in the flesh. Who of all the sea-folk had not heard the wild, bloody tales told of Conan, the wild rover who had once been a captain of the Barachan pirates, and one of the greatest scourges of the sea? A score of ballads celebrated his ferocious and audacious exploits. The man could not be ignored; irresistibly he had stalked into the scene, to form another, dominant element in the tangled plot. And in the midst of her frightened fascination, Belesa’s feminine instinct prompted the speculation as to Conan’s attitude toward her – would it be like Strom’s brutal indifference, or Zarono’s violent desire?
Valenso was recovering from the shock of finding a stranger within his very hall. He knew Conan was a Cimmerian, born and bred in the wastes of the far north, and therefore not amenable to the physical limitations which controlled civilized men. It was not so strange that he had been able to enter the fort undetected, but Valenso flinched at the reflection that other barbarians might duplicate that feat – the dark, silent Picts, for instance.
“What do you want here?” he demanded. “Did you come from the sea?”
“I came from the woods,” the Cimmerian jerked his head toward the east.
“You have been living with the Picts?” Valenso asked coldly.
A momentary anger flickered bluely in the giant’s eyes.
“Even a Zingaran ought to know there’s never been peace between Picts and Cimmerians, and never will be,” he retorted with an oath. “Our feud with them is older than the world. If you’d said that to one of my wilder brothers, you’d have found yourself with a split head. But I’ve lived among you civilized men long enough to understand your ignorance and lack of common courtesy – the churlishness that demands his business of a man who appears at your door out of a thousand-mile wilderness. Never mind that.” He turned to the two freebooters who stood staring glumly at him.
“From what I overheard,” quoth he, “I gather there is some dissention over a map!”
“That is none of your affair,” growled Strom.
“Is this it?” Conan grinned wickedly and drew from his pocket a crumpled object – a square of parchment, marked with crimson lines.
Strom started violently, paling.
“My map!” he ejaculated. “Where did you get it?”
“From your mate, Galacus, when I killed him,” answered Conan with grim enjoyment.
“You dog!” raved Strom, turning on Zarono. “You never had the map! You lied –”
“I didn’t say I had it,” snarled Zarono. “You deceived yourself. Don’t be a fool. Conan is alone. If he had a crew he’d have already cut our throats. We’ll take the map from him –”
“You’ll never touch it!” Conan laughed fiercely.
Both men sprang at him, cursing. Stepping back he crumpled the parchment and cast it into the glowing coals of the fireplace. With an incoherent bellow Strom lunged past him, to be met with a buffet under the ear that stretched him half-senseless on the floor. Zarono whipped out his sword but before he could thrust, Conan’s cutlass beat it out of his hand.
Zarono staggered against the table, with all hell in his eyes. Strom dragged himself erect, his eyes glazed, blood dripping from his bruised ear. Conan leaned slightly over the table, his outstretched cutlass just touched the breast of Count Valenso.
“Don’t call for your soldiers, Count,” said the Cimmerian softly. “Not a sound out of you – or from you, either, dog-face!” His name for Galbro, who showed no intention of braving his wrath. “The map’s burned to ashes, and it’ll do no good to spill blood. Sit down, all of you.”
Strom hesitated, made an abortive gesture toward his hilt, then shrugged his shoulders and sank sullenly into a chair. The others followed suit. Conan remained standing, towering over the table, while his enemies watched him with bitter eyes of hate.
“You were bargaining,” he said. “That’s all I’ve come to do.”
“And what have you to trade?” sneered Zarono.
“The treasure of Tranicos!”
“What?”
All four men were on their feet, leaning toward him.
“Sit down!” he roared, banging his broad blade on the table. They sank back, tense and white with excitement.
He grinned in huge enjoyment of the sensation his words had caused.
“Yes! I found it before I got the map. That’s why I burned the map. I don’t need it. And now nobody will ever find it, unless I show him where it is.”
They stared at him with murder in their eyes.
“You’re lying,” said Zarono without conviction. “You’ve told us one lie already. You said you came from the woods, yet you say you haven’t been living with the Picts. All men know this country is a wilderness, inhabited only by savages. The nearest outposts of civilization are the Aquilonian settlements on Thunder River, hundreds of miles to eastward.”
“That’s where I came from,” replied Conan imperturbably. “I believe I’m the first white man to cross the Pictish Wilderness. I crossed Thunder River to follow a raiding party that had been harrying the frontier. I followed them deep into the wilderness, and killed their chief, but was knocked senseless by a stone from a sling during the melee, and the dogs captured me alive. They were Wolfmen, but they traded me to the Eagle clan in return for a chief of theirs the Eagles had captured. The Eagles carried me nearly a hundred miles westward to burn me in their chief village, but I killed their war-chief and three or four others one night, and broke away.
“I couldn’t turn back. They were behind me, and kept herding me westward. A few days ago I shook them off, and by Crom, the place where I took refuge turned out to be the treasure trove of old Tranicos! I found it all: chests of garments and weapons – that’s where I got these clothes and this blade – heaps of coins and gems and gold ornaments, and in the midst of all, the jewels of Tothmekri gleaming like frozen starlight! And old Tranicos and his eleven captains sitting about an ebon table and staring at the hoard, as they’ve stared for a hundred years!”
“What?”
“Aye!” he laughed. “Tranicos died in the midst of his treasure, and all with him! Their bodies have not rotted nor shrivelled. They sit there in their high boots and skirted coats and lacquered hats, with their wine glasses in their stiff hands, just as they have sat for a century!”
“That’s an unchancy thing!” muttered Strom uneasily, but Zarono snarled: “What boots it? It’s the treasure we want. Go on, Conan.”
Conan seated himself at the board, filled a goblet and quaffed it before he answered.
“The first wine I’ve drunk since I left Conawaga, by Crom! Those cursed Eagles hunted me so closely through the forest I had hardly time to munch the nuts and roots I found. Sometimes I caught frogs and ate them raw because I dared not light a fire.”
His impatient hearers informed him profanely that they were not interested in his adventures prior to finding the treasure.
He grinned hardly and resumed: “Well, after I stumbled onto the trove I lay up and rested a few days, and made snares to catch rabbits, and let my wounds heal. I saw smoke against the western sky, but thought it some Pictish village on the beach. I lay close, but as it happens, the loot’s hidden in a place the Picts shun. If any spied on me, they didn’t show themselves.
“Last night I started westward, intending to strike the beach some miles north of the spot where I’d seen the smoke. I wasn’t far from the shore when that storm hit. I took shelter under the lee of a rock and waited until it had blown itself out. Then I climbed a tree to look for Picts, and from it I saw your carack at anchor, Strom, and your men coming in to shore. I was making my way toward your camp on the beach when I met Galacus. I shoved a sword through him because there was an old feud between us. I wouldn’t have known he had a map, if he hadn’t tried to eat it before he died.
“I recognized it for what it was, of course, and was considering what use I could make of it, when the rest of you dogs came up and found the body. I was lying in a thicket not a dozen yards from you while you were arguing with your men over the matter. I judged the time wasn’t ripe for me to show myself then!”
He laughed at the rage and chagrin displayed in Strom’s face.
“Well, while I lay there, listening to your talk, I got a drift of the situation, and learned, from the things you let fall, that Zarono and Valenso were a few miles south on the beach. So when I heard you say that Zarono must have done the killing and taken the map, and that you meant to go and parley with him, seeking an opportunity to murder him and get it back –”
“Dog!” snarled Zarono. Strom was livid, but he laughed mirthlessly.
“Do you think I’d play fairly with a treacherous dog like you? – Go on, Conan.”
The Cimmerian grinned. It was evident that he was deliberately fanning the fires of hate between the two men.
“Nothing much, then. I came straight through the woods while you tacked along the coast, and raised the fort before you did. Your guess that the storm had destroyed Zarono’s ship was a good one – but then, you knew the configuration of this bay.
“Well, there’s the story. I have the treasure, Strom has a ship, Valenso has supplies. By Crom, Zarono, I don’t see where you fit into the scheme, but to avoid strife I’ll include you. My proposal is simple enough.
“We’ll split the treasure four ways. Strom and I will sail away with our shares aboard
The Red Hand.
You and Valenso take yours and remain lords of the wilderness, or build a ship out of tree trunks, as you wish.”
Valenso blenched and Zarono swore, while Strom grinned quietly.
“Are you fool enough to go aboard
The Red Hand
alone with Strom?” snarled Zarono. “He’ll cut your throat before you’re out of sight of land!”
Conan laughed with genuine enjoyment.
“This is like the problem of the sheep, the wolf and the cabbage,” he admitted. “How to get them across the river without their devouring each other!”
“And that appeals to your Cimmerian sense of humor,” complained Zarono.
“I will not stay here!” cried Valenso, a wild gleam in his dark eyes. “Treasure or no treasure, I must go!”
Conan gave him a slit-eyed glance of speculation.
“Well, then,” said he, “how about this plan: we divide the loot as I suggested. Then Strom sails away with Zarono, Valenso, and such members of the Count’s household as he may select, leaving me in command of the fort and the rest of Valenso’s men, and all of Zarono’s. I’ll build my own ship.”
Zarono looked slightly sick.
“I have the choice of remaining here in exile, or abandoning my crew and going alone on
The Red Hand
to have my throat cut?”
Conan’s laughter rang gustily through the hall, and he smote Zarono jovially on the back, ignoring the black murder in the buccaneer’s glare.
“That’s it, Zarono!” quoth he. “Stay here while Strom and I sail away, or sail away with Strom, leaving your men with me.”
“I’d rather have Zarono,” said Strom frankly. “You’d turn my own men against me, Conan, and cut my throat before I raised the Barachans.”
Sweat dripped from Zarono’s livid face.
“Neither I, the Count, nor his niece will ever reach the land alive if we ship with that devil,” said he. “You are both in my power in this hall. My men surround it. What’s to prevent me cutting you both down?”